


Theory of Relativity

by signifying_nothing



Category: B.A.P, GOT7, SEVENTEEN (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, a for angst, cute shit, drug and alcohol abuse, eonnies famous crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-04 03:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifying_nothing/pseuds/signifying_nothing
Summary: It's been so long since the two of them were nude beneath the sky. Between jobs and family and all the minuscule pressures that compound into one another until the world is an insufferable stone slab on the chest, between the miserable routine of every day life and all it forces on them, they just haven't had the time to be anywhere but their small apartment, where the sun can't come in directly because they're surrounded on all sides by buildings that black out the sky itself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bazooka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazooka/gifts).



> mom i love them

The old train car is finally, finally quiet.

Jihoon and Yoongi left hours ago, the two of them sniping one another around sips of strong drinks while holding on to one another's beltloops like two meteors caught in gravitational pull. Jackson and Jooheon were gone, too—they'd slipped away an hour or so before, Jooheon mostly sobered up from his high as he led a still giggling Jackson by the hand through the moonlit garden of rusted metal and gravel. The rest of the them had wandered off—Hoseok and Junhong to Hoseok's apartment, Jeongguk and Yugyeom back to Yugyeom's mom's place. Jimin and Chanyeol had taken off with Taehyung and Taekwoon, probably to continue their trips with something a little stronger than weed and Seokjin and Jaehwan, the only sober two, had driven the four of them to wherever they'd wanted to go.

So it's just Namjoon and Yongguk now, sitting in the train car and taking long breaths of medicinal-grade weed from Yongguk's glass bowl. It's finally summer, so the door to the train car is open to the water and the scrub grass and the sky, which is so full of stars that Namjoon is half-convinced they're going to start overflowing and falling like snow.

He wonders, idly, what it's like to hold a star in your mouth. To feel it sparkling and burning between your teeth.

“Joonie?” Yongguk asks, his deep voice rumbling all through Namjoon's body. He can't help but smile as he turns to look at him, taking in his dark curls, his half-open eyes, the welcoming plushness of his mouth. They've just finished the last of the nugget, and now they're laying back on what Namjoon has always known as an _indian blanket_ , though he's sure there's a... A not racist term for the thick-woven and striped cloth, he just can't remember it right now. Not when he's laying on his back beside Yongguk who is looking up at the stars. They fall into his eyes and make a galaxy of him.

“Yeah?” Namjoon asks, bringing up one hand to touch the side of Yongguk's neck and cheek. He's gained some weight back, finally. It's so good to see. He's not as soft as he used to be but it's all right. Namjoon will take what he can get. “What.”

“Nothin',” Yongguk admits, looking over at him, effectively cradling his face in Namjoon's palm. “Miss you.”

“I'm right here,” Namjoon laughs, he can't help it. Yongguk smiles, reaches up slowly to run his fingers through Namjoon's silver hair, cupping the back of his head. “M'right here.”

“I know you are,” Yongguk replies, and Namjoon closes his eyes as he's led down for a kiss. Yongguk tastes like good weed and excellent alcohol, the touch of apricot brandy dried on his lip sticky and sweet as Namjoon slides his tongue over his mouth. Yongguk sighs, opens his lips and tugs Namjoon closer. With just the two of them, Namjoon isn't so nervous about shifting to settle himself half on top of Yongguk's only slightly broader body. It's not that he doesn't want his friends to see them being intimate, it's just that... It's intimate. Intimacy is very private for Namjoon, it's not something he likes to share and luckily Yongguk is understanding of this; in public, their displays of affection are limited to hand-holding and the occasional backhug, perhaps a kiss on the cheek. But here, in the dark and alone beneath the endless stars, beside the frothing ocean, Namjoon kisses Yongguk in front of the universe itself. Let it share in what they have together: in the end, it is still theirs.

Yongguk sighs into Namjoon's mouth and sits up onto his elbows. Namjoon is on hands and knees when their mouths part, wet and soft with saliva and the gentle pressure of their favorite brand of kisses. Namjoon giggles a little when Yongguk kisses a dimple—returns the favor and laughs when Yongguk giggles, too. Weed makes them laugh, makes them light. It's a welcome relief from the usual weights that drag them down.

"Hyung?" Namjoon asks, when Yongguk kisses his cheek, and then his jaw, and then his neck, pausing to give the softest little sucks, not wanting to leave marks where Namjoon's button-ups won't cover them. "Mm, hyung."

"Yeah?" Yongguk asks, smiling, nudging against Namjoon's throat to urge his head into tipping back. "What, Joon."

"Feels good," Namjoon sighs, dropping his head to one side.

"C'mon," Yongguk urges, pushing Namjoon into sitting up. "Get these off."

It's been so long since the two of them were nude beneath the sky. Between jobs and family and all the minuscule pressures that compound into one another until the world is an insufferable stone slab on the chest, between the miserable routine of every day life and all it forces on them, they just haven't had the time to be anywhere but their small apartment, where the sun can't come in directly because they're surrounded on all sides by buildings that black out the sky itself.

So Namjoon is eager as he shimmies out of his clothes and pushes them aside. Yongguk does the same, the two of them laying down together on the blanket. Namjoon sighs as Yongguk's hand traces up his side to settle on his waist, thumb caressing over his ribs. Namjoon takes in a breath and it's Yongguk's breath, their mouths together in something a little deeper than the gentle kisses of a moment before. Beneath the stars Yongguk kisses Namjoon's lower lip, sucks it, and Namjoon slides a hand up into Yongguk's dark curls and holds his head in place. Usually... Usually, Yongguk is in control of their intimacy. He's older by four years, he's more experienced, but sometimes Namjoon thinks that it's good for him to relax—to settle back and be pleasured instead of worrying about Namjoon.

He pulls gently on Yongguk's hair, tugs his head back and smiles as he swallows down a breath and a moan that rocks down and around into Namjoon's lungs, held safe inside of him. He pushes Yongguk onto his back and climbs on top of him, smooths his hands down from shoulders to waist. Yongguk looks up at him, breath fast, eyes dilated and mouth so, so soft that Namjoon can't resist leaning in for another kiss, another, until Yongguk's arms are around his shoulders and he's laying down on top of him, their legs tangled, bodies as much in contact as possible, pressed together as tightly as can be.

For a long, long time, they just kiss. Lips, tongue and teeth, gentle moans into the dark. Namjoon hisses in a breath when Yongguk tugs his hair and kisses his throat, grunts when the older man brings his hands down to clasp his backside and pull him in close. Closer.

Then he giggles, and Namjoon giggles because he's giggling. "What," he finally asks, breathless and smiling, still peppering Yongguk's face with kisses.

"Just," Yongguk laughs. "You. Showing off your bare ass to God, the universe and every alien in the known galaxy."

"It's a _nice_ ass," Namjoon protests, and Yongguk gives said ass a squeeze, fingertips hugging the curve. "I mean at least it's not _completely_ flat, okay. And there's no such thing as _God,_ okay _._ And if there _was,_ I'm sure he'd find my ass nice to look at."

"I like your ass, Joon," Yongguk promises, laughing that big laugh that shows off his gums and makes Namjoon's heart skip a little. "It's little but it's yours, and I love it. I promise."

"You love me for more than my ass, right?" Namjoon asks, pouting, rubbing his groin to Yongguk's thigh even as he indignantly sits up a little in preparation to have a little fuss for himself. "Because there is more to me than my ass Bang Yongguk and if you are only fucking me because you like my ass—"

 _Fucking,_ he says, as though they haven't been practically married since Namjoon was sixteen and insisting that he could smoke and follow Yongguk around wherever he went, demanding his attention like a bratty child. As though Yongguk hadn't promised to Namjoon that when he was eighteen they could go on a proper date and they haven't been inseparable since. _Fucking,_ he says, like they're not lovers, emphasis on _love._

"You're so dramatic," Yongguk manages to say around his laughter, turning them over, landing Namjoon on his back. Namjoon stares up at him and reaches to tuck back his curls before using his grip to pull Yongguk down into a slow, deep kiss. Everything is soft, saliva-slick, tasting like apricot brandy and weed and Namjoon spreads his legs and lets Yongguk in closer, closer until he has to pull away to pant for air. Yongguk's elbows are settled on the blanket to either side of Namjoon's body, his hands are curved under to grip his shoulders. For a long moment they just breathe together, lips barely touching, bodies curved concave to leave a space between them that slowly depresses as Yongguk bends convex instead and kisses Namjoon's neck, bites gently.

"Hyung," Namjoon protests quietly, but Yongguk never leaves marks. Not where anyone can see them, not like some members of their group of friends, who leave marks of possession like warnings wherever they can.

"Joon," Yongguk replies, moving to lay beside him, Namjoon's thigh pulled up over his hip. "You're so beautiful." Namjoon still blushes, like he does every time. He can _feel_ the heat edging up his face through the very light fog over his senses that makes everything happen so slowly. "I mean it," he says, and Namjoon knows he does. Yongguk doesn't lie to him, not about things like that. "The most beautiful boy in the universe," his lips trace Namjoon's neck and Namjoon takes in a hard breath. "And all the stars can see it."

"Hyung," he whispers, biting his own lip when Yongguk finds the place he likes to suck and bruise, just over Namjoon's heart and below his clavicle. He bites, licks, nearly chews with his neat little teeth as Namjoon squirms and pushes against him, breathless, panting for air and gripping Yongguk's curls in one hand. Using the leverage of his thigh braced over Yongguk's hips Namjoon rubs himself against his leg and groin and belly, moaning into his hair, pulling him in closer, tighter, wanting to suffocate with it. Wanting to drown in the way Yongguk's tongue flicks over his nipple and kisses the soft skin just inside his underarm. His hips keep up their shameless roll forward and he can feel Yongguk's erection against his own body, can feel his own weightlessness tugging himself away from the ground. For a moment he's afraid he's going to float away and he takes in a gasp, but Yongguk's hands hold his shoulders, Yongguk's hands hold him down to the earth.

"Yongguk," he breathes, making a small noise as Yongguk turns him onto his belly and kisses his neck, his back, hands on his waist. Namjoon groans, cheek to the blanket, and rubs himself shamelessly into the cloth. "Mm, shit."

"You're so..." Yongguk trails off as he makes his way from Namjoon's shoulders to the small of his back, lips and teeth and fingertips. Namjoon lifts his hips as Yongguk's hands cup the curves of his backside and hold him open--the little rush of air over his rim is enough to make his thighs shake. Has the air always been so cold?

But then there is the heat of Yongguk's mouth, his tongue, and Namjoon grabs at the blanket, stretches his back as he rakes his fingernails over the woven cloth. He feels like his skin is sparkling, like he's generating electricity, and as Yongguk reaches between his legs to cup his balls and squeeze Namjoon whimpers, whines. The air is so cold he's shivering, goosebumps breaking out over his arms as Yongguk lifts his hips and turns him over onto his back, wiggling down between his legs.

"Hyung," he says, and Yongguk bends down, the warmth of his body like the warmth of the sun, and Namjoon spreads his legs to let him in close, biting his own lip as Yongguk starts to rock, to move his hips in a rhythm Namjoon knows so well.

"Joonie," Yongguk breathes, his voice low and warm in Namjoon's neck as he pants, lowers his bosy as much as he dares without actually bracing all of his weight on Namjoon's narrow pelvis. His breathing is ragged and hot, his erection is thick and heavy next to Namjoons.

Namjoon spits into one hand, again for good measure, and reaches down to hold their dicks together, groaning loudly as Yongguk's hips snap forward and the pressure on his own groin makes him hiss.

"Joonie," Yongguk breathes into his mouth, licking his top lip and moving his arms to allow his hands to cradle Namjoon's head. Namjoon relaxes his neck, tips his head to one side and moans sweetly when Yongguk kisses his throat. "Jesus, Namjoonie. That feels so good, babe."

"Touch me more," Namjoon whispers, frantic, always frantic when Yongguk is on top of him, inside of him, kissing him. "Please, Yongguk, I—aah," Yongguk has pulled one hand free—pushed Namjoon's knee up to an uncomfortable position but his fingers are rubbing over Namjoon's rim, his erection rocking into Namjoon's thigh and belly with the change in position. Namjoon grabs Yongguk's shoulders and groans.

"In," he pants, breathless. "In, in in Yongguk please,"

"Can't," Yongguk whispers into his neck adn Namjoon _whines,_ arching his back and spreading his thigh further. "Can't, Joonie, I didn't bring," Namjoon _knows_ that Yongguk is right, but that doesn't really matter to him right now. What matters is that he's as close as possible to Yongguk, that he's... That he's joined with him under the dark and sparkling sky with the ocean just over the edge of the cliff, that together they create the horizon with the plains of their bodies coming together.

"Please," he whimpers, and Yongguk brings his hand up. Wets his fingers with saliva and reaches back down to slide the digits into Namjoon, who arches his back up and _moans,_ loud and open to the sky. " _Yes,_ " he pants, rocking his hips with more force as Yongguk holds still and while sometimes Namjoon thinks that he is the ground and Yongguk is the sky surrounding him, most of the time it's Yongguk keeping him grounded, holding him to the ground like a star on a string.

"Yongguk," he pants, shivering, rocking, biting his lip in pleasure when Yongguk's fingers smoothly thrust in and out, slow and shallow. "Oh, yes, yes yes—" and when his orgasm starts to build up in his legs his thighs shake and his hands tighten and _oh fuck yes—_

Yongguk pulls up. Pushes his fingers in to the knuckles and uses his other hand to hold Namjoon's cock, stroking him off until Namjoon jerks his hips up and cums all over his beautiful mouth and jaw and throat. Namjoon stares at him, shuddering as Yongguk keeps stroking him, fingering him, overstimulating his body with his fat lips around the tip of Namjoon's dick, sucking sweetly as his fingers pull back Namjoon's foreskin, palming his balls until Namjoon whines and squirms and sits up, grabbing Yongguk by their hair to drag him in for a kiss, licking away the cum on his skin, sharing it into Yongguk's mouth with a moan that echoes through the train car.

They break apart only because Namjoon is whimpering, because Yongguk's fingers are easing out of him. “Please hyung,” he breathes, already trying to push Yongguk onto his knees, already trying to bully him into a position where he can pleasure him best. He can see the horizon lightening but he doesn't care. “Please please please.”

Yongguk sways in the dark as Namjoon wiggles underneath him—wraps his arms around each of Yongguk's thighs and, laying on his back, brings him down into his mouth. Namjoon sighs in satisfaction as he leads his lover into thrusting, slow and deep past his gag reflex every time. Yongguk, weight on his hands and knees, fucks into Namjoon's mouth and Namjoon loves it, grunts and groans, sighs and chokes and gasps for air when Yongguk pulls back too far and Namjoon has to drag him back in again. Yongguk worries too much. Namjoon knows what he can take.

He can take Yongguk. He can take his cock in his throat and in his ass, he can take his pleasured whines and the tight curl of fingers in his hair as he gets close to orgasm, his balls plump and firm on Namjoon's chin. He can take his early morning grumpiness and his late-night melancholy, he can take the nights when there are no stars, the days when there is no sun. He can take Yongguk's quiet and his loudness, his laughter and his tears and his soft exclamation of orgasm as he pushes into Namjoon's throat and stays there, Namjoon's hands on his ass holding him in place, throat tightening with swallows until he _has_ to breathe.

“Joonie,” Yongguk murmurs, moving to drop to the blanket, panting, tugging Namjoon up against him, kissing him, holding him tight. Namjoon drags the blanket up and around their bodies, hiding their nakedness from the violet and orange sky. Yongguk pants, his eyes closed, his forehead on Namjoon's shoulder. “Joonie. Namjoon, I love you.”

“Love you too,” Namjoon promises, as he has every day since he was sixteen and Yongguk was twenty, still wearing black every day and glaring out at the world from behind the lenses of his glasses. As he has every day since Yongguk came back from the hospital but his brother didn't, and no one wanted to talk to him, but Namjoon had. Nothing had changed to him, not really. All it meant was that Yongguk, like everyone else, was fragile and Namjoon wanted to be the person to take care of him. To love him like that. “Love you so much, hyung.”

Sometimes it gets hard, especially around this time of year when the nights are so short and the days last forever, but Namjoon sits in Yongguk's lap under the sky and above the ocean and rocks, kisses his face and his lips and his hair. They don't bother getting up, getting re-dressed. Namjoon just gets up and closes the door on the train car, locks the bolt and tugs Yongguk up onto the futon against the far side of the small space. Together they curl under the blanket and kiss, lazy and sleepy, until the sun breaks up over the horizon and finds them long lost to dreams with Namjoon's lips to Yongguk's throat and Yongguk's thigh thrown over Namjoon's hip.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He used to think it couldn't get worse than it was with Jeongguk. Luckily he'd had the sense to break that off before it went too far—that disastrous altercation in his basement apartment had been enough to scare Jeongguk off and it had taken months to repair their friendship—but Jeongguk still wouldn't be alone with him, and Yugyeom hung protectively over him like a salty guardian angel, the little shit. Like he could actually do anything to Yoongi if Yoongi didn't want him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for! a for angst, vomit mention, drug and alcohol abuse, unhealthy relationship!

He used to think it couldn't get worse than it was with Jeongguk. Luckily he'd had the sense to break that off before it went too far—that disastrous altercation in his basement apartment had been enough to scare Jeongguk off and it had taken months to repair their friendship—but Jeongguk still wouldn't be alone with him, and Yugyeom hung protectively over him like a salty guardian angel, the little shit. Like he could actually do anything to Yoongi if Yoongi didn't want him to.

Still. He hadn't thought any relationship could be worse than what he'd suffered through with Jeongguk (made Jeongguk suffer through) but. But here he is, glaring at Lee Jihoon, more than a little intoxicated and hating the sight of him. It's like looking in a mirror, it's like seeing himself five or six years ago before he'd really started to fuck up his life and no matter how much he shoves Jihoon away, no matter how much he tries to force his hand in leaving, Jihoon stubbornly holds on, like there's something left to save.

As if Yoongi could be saved, if he didn't want to be.

They'd been with the group, earlier. On pins and needles they'd sat with the rest of them, smoking weed and drinking until Yoongi had staggered up with his cup still in his hand and Jihoon had stumbled after him. Like little kids they'd threaded their free fingers through one another's beltloops and somewhere along the way they lost their cups, the glass shattered to the gravel as the lights of the trainyard gave way to the stars and nothing else.

Yoongi is angry.

He's angry that Jihoon is here, he hates that Jihoon is with him, he _hates_ Jihoon. He hates that he looks at Jihoon and he sees himself, he hates that when Jihoon looks at him he's seeing the worst possible outcome. Yoongi is nobody, no one, musical talent left to rot when no one but his friends could support him and his pride wouldn't let him go home and the choice was starve or eat and Yoongi, ever the survivor, gave up music to feed himself. Gave up everything he'd ever wanted because the alternative was to sleep under awnings or in boxes, because his parents were all the way past the mountains and they didn't want him to come home.

He didn't want to go home.

He doesn't want Jihoon to be looking at him.

“Fucking go home,” he mutters, stumbling down the stairs to his basement apartment, fumbling for his keys. Jihoon is only a touch more sober, but he manages to snatch the keys from Yoongi's hand and shove the proper piece of metal into the lock, the door falling open and the two of them tripping into the studio. The futon is unfolded. Along the far wall are boxes that hold all of Yoongi's life—music equipment nobody would buy that he'd never bothered unpacking, the broken keyboard collecting dust. Old clothes, old things, old life that Yoongi should have left when he moved in here, when he gave up.

Jihoon is struggling with Yoongi's t-shirt, trying to get it up over his head. Yoongi lifts his arms like a kid, staring at the floor. “The fuck are you doing,” he slurs, staggering back when Jihoon grabs for his belt.

“You gotta shower,” he says, and his voice is so strong and sure and Yoongi fucking _hates him._

“Fucking leave,” he spits, unable to get the leverage needed to shove Jihoon away from him as the younger man jerks down his jeans, bullies him to the futon and knocks him back on it, unlacing his sneakers. Yoongi stares at the ceiling and feels his head spin, feels his body try to spin like a corpse in space but he's not moving, not really. It's just Jihoon, pulling his clothes all the way off and dragging him up to his feet, yanking him toward the bathroom.

“You're a fucking alcoholic, you know that,” Jihoon mutters, and Yoongi, in a moment of rage-induced strength, pushes Jihoon into the wall, forgetting that he's nude and vulnerable and high and _tired._ God he's tired.

“Then fucking _leave,_ ” he snarls, staggering to the bathroom on his own and slamming the door, leaning against it, taking in heaving breaths. His stomach hurts. His head hurts. He barely makes it to the toilet before he's throwing up all the alcohol, everything they had to eat. It burns terribly, hurts his nose and the smell makes him gag. Jihoon flushes the toilet. Starts the water. The studio has a bathtub, thank god. Yoongi listens to it fill as Jihoon sits on the edge of it and pulls his fingers through Yoongi's hair, murmuring nothing in particular and despite himself the motion soothes Yoongi, lulls him into complacency because it's gentle, because no one is ever gentle with Yoongi, not even himself. He doesn't want them to be. Gentleness is weak, to _need_ gentleness is fucking _weak_ and Yoongi is a lot of shitty things but weak isn't one of them.

Yoongi's head lolls back as Jihoon pulls him up onto his knees, hugs his limp body in close.

“C'mon,” he grunts, forcing Yoongi up onto the edge of the tub before Yoongi shakes his head.

“No, wait,” he says, slurring, eyes mostly closed and very crossed. “Gotta. Gotta piss, not. Can't get n'the fuckin' bath when ya gotta piss.”

Jihoon helps him stand. Holds him from behind and holds his cock to aim into the toilet and Yoongi laughs, remembering this game he used to play where he'd throw the butt of his cigarette into the toilet and use it as target practice. He used to be pretty good.

Jihoon gives his dick a shake and Yoongi wants to laugh, letting the younger man all but drop him into the tub, the water sloshing back and forth, smelling like peaches and feeling like wet silk. Yoongi looks down to see that the water is a bit frothy, a little shimmery. Oh. Bath bomb. Right.

Jihoon closes the toilet and sits on the seat, watching Yoongi as he lays there, up to his chest in pink water, his bony knees showing. Yoongi wants to talk but can't, his brain sluggish and heavy and he's so tired, and he just... He's so fucking _sad._

“Why're you here,” he asks, and Jihoon looks down at him. It's like a mirror. He's disappointed. Yoongi is disappointed with himself, too. He wonders why he's doing this to himself. “Sorry,” he whispers, trying to reach up but unable to find the coordination, making a sound of frustration until Jihoon grabs his hand and holds it.

“I'm sorry too,” Jihoon replies, pressing the back of Yoongi's hand to his chin, to his jaw and his lips, leaving little peach and gold shimmers on the skin. “C'mon. Get nice and rinsed off, okay. You gotta get some sleep. Do you have work tomorrow?”

“Nah,” Yoongi shakes his head. “S'... Four day workweek, no work tomorrow.” Construction isn't glorious work. It's not even good work, really. But Yoongi is lean, wire-tight these days. He's stronger than he used to be, and so much thinner. Jihoon isn't thin. Jihoon still has a little bit of baby fat on his face and Yoongi smiles a little as he tries to stroke it, just to feel how soft it is. “You... You got. School?”

“School got out two weeks ago,” Jihoon says, and Yoongi knows that Jihoon's told him before, he must have. He must have, he looks so fucking disappointed and Yoongi hates him. He thinks about what to say and can't think of anything that's enough of an apology for being such a fuckup.

“Fucking leave,” he whispers, and Jihoon doesn't let go of his hand. “I said _leave._ ”

“Too fucking bad,” Jihoon replies, because he knows Yoongi isn't strong enough to fight him. Not right now. Not drunk, not tired and sad and desperate. “Come on. Get up, get your ass to bed.”

When did the water get cold? It had been steaming a second ago, hadn't it? Yoongi can't remember, it... Time is so strange. Jihoon doesn't have school tomorrow. Jihoon is hauling Yoongi out of the tub and wrapping him in a towel, leading him to the futon. He's laying Yoongi down and drying his hair and body, he's...

Yoongi reaches to grab Jihoon's hand. His eyes are heavy but he needs it right now. “Fuck me,” he says, tasting peach glitter on his lips.

“No,” Jihoon says. “You're too fucked up.”

“I'm always fucked up,” Yoongi snorts, and Jihoon glares down at him and it makes Yoongi laugh. “Don't look at me like, like that you _know._ You know it, Jihoon, you do. What, you don't want to fuck your future?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jihoon hisses. “And go to sleep.”

“Put me to sleep,” Yoongi counters, grinning, sitting up and yanking Jihoon on top of him, still dressed.

“Knock it _off,_ god you're such a messy slut when you're drunk,” Jihoon snarls, shoving Yoongi down to the bed, looking disgusted and something in Yoongi cracks a little. Just like when Jihoon looks disappointed, that face... It hurts. Jihoon is drunk too and it hurts.

He withdraws. Grabs for a blanket, suddenly desperate to hide himself, suddenly desperate to disappear completely. His throat hurts. His chest hurts. Jihoon's voice feels like fire raking over his head.

“Yoongi. Yoongi, wait, I'm sorry,”

“Fucking leave,” Yoongi hisses, holding back tears, desperate not to give Jihoon the satisfaction of knowing that he's hurt him. No one deserves that satisfaction. Nothing hurts Min Yoongi. Min Yoongi is fucking invincible. The world is trying to shove him down and exterminate him and like the nuclear fucking cockroach, Min Yoongi _survives_.

Even if that's all he does.

~

Jihoon watches Yoongi try to stifle his hysterical crying. He's always like this when he's drunk. Emotional—righteously angry, desolately sad. His mood swings are too much, and Jihoon pushes up from the futon, watches Yoongi shake under the blanket and wonders if he'll choke on his own vomit tonight. Wonders if he should leave.

He should leave.

He doesn't leave.

He takes a quick shower. Hears Yoongi throwing up in the main room and closes his eyes. _Why are you doing this to yourself,_ his friends ask him, and Jihoon doesn't know how to say, _because I don't want to end up like him and have no one care about me, either._

It's a weird thing, to look at Yoongi and see what he might have been, if he hadn't forced himself onto a path where he had more chance of succeeding. Granted... Granted, Yoongi is different. He's had it rougher than Jihoon, Jihoon knows that. He knows from drunken rambles and from the stories his friends tell when he's not around. He knows Yoongi's parents stopped talking to him when he was fifteen and didn't resist when he left the house at sixteen and never came back. He knows he sold most of his equipment when he got to the city, he knows the sweet slur of his accent never really left. When he's tired, when he's sad, it comes to the forefront; the lisping lilt of his voice makes him sweet and childish and it hurts Jihoon's heart to hear Yoongi talking to himself under the blanket, rocking back and forth and crying, _I'm okay, we're okay, we're okay, it's okay, i'm okay, we're okay yoongiyah i'm sorry we're okay, we're gonna be okay._

It's pathetic. It's pathetic and disgusting and Jihoon can't turn away from him. Not even when he vomits in his own bed, not when he pisses himself through his jeans because he's too drunk to remember that he's dressed. Not even when he goes to work and comes home, silent and covered in brisk dust and the oily smears of machine grease. He's just so...

Jihoon wants to help him. But god, god he hates him too. Hates what he's let himself become. He's heard his music, through Namjoon and Yongguk and Hoseok. He's heard what Yoongi used to be capable of before he gave up.

It's one of the most frustrating things. Yoongi could try. He _could._ He just won't. Jihoon thinks he's too scared of failure to even attempt, anymore. A part of him can't blame Yoongi for that.

Another part of him hates him for being so afraid.

It takes another two hours for Yoongi to sober up enough to get out of the blankets to head for the kitchen. Jihoon opens his eyes and watches him crawl on his hands and knees. Watches him sit in front of the minifridge and fumble for a water bottle. Watches him suckle from the sippy top and feels his heart break. Yoongi looks very small, right now. Very small and very helpless.

He crawls back to the futon, climbs up onto it after a moment of negotiation and lays the water bottle beside his head so he can suck from it without using his hands. Jihoon watches him, and watches him, and watches him.

Jihoon wakes to the sound of running water. The weak daylight filtering in through the small windows only offers enough illumination to show that Yoongi is standing at the kitchen sink wearing boxers and a t-shirt. His hair is damp, and he's washing the dishes.

“Hyung,” Jihoon says, and Yoongi drops whatever he'd been cleaning back into the water. Nothing breaks—Yoongi doesn't have any glass plates or cups anymore. They're all plastic.

“Jihoon,” he says, turning around and looking guilty, looking tired. “I thought. Thought you went home.”

Of course he didn't really think that—Jihoon has been in the large chair all night, under a blanket, there's no way that Yoongi missed him sitting there.

“I didn't,” he replies, easily, and sits up as Yoongi turns back to the sink to finish the dishes. “How are you feeling. Better?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, though his movements are listless and weak. Jihoon gets up and stretches his arms over his head, popping his back and elbows before walking to Yoongi. The older man is about four inches taller, but that doesn't matter; he still feels very small in Jihoon's embrace. Jihoon wraps his arms around his waist and thinks about how nice it is to have morning sex with Yoongi when he's freshly sober and still soft. “Jihoonah,” Yoongi whispers, his voice raw and shredded from his hysterics the night before. “Jihoonah. Hyung's sorry.”

“You should be,” Jihoon says, voice flat and honest. Yoongi flinches terribly. “But I'm not mad. I'm not mad, hyung, okay?”

“Right,” Yoongi says, shivering. Jihoon kisses his shoulder and Yoongi doesn't relax. Jihoon kisses his neck and eases him around, looks up at him and pushes back his damp, dark hair. For a moment Yoongi doesn't breathe. Jihoon feels his chest still, feels his heart hammer, and reaches a hand to hold the back of Yoongi's neck and pull him down into a kiss.

It's not sweet, but it's sweeter than it should be after a night like the last, after Yoongi's been so drunk and crazy. Jihoon feels Yoongi shiver and shake and melt because he always does. Because he's weak and he needs someone to take care of him and Jihoon wants to do that but he can't. Not all the time. It's too much. Yoongi needs _help._ Real help.

All Jihoon can give him is everything he has. He pulls Yoongi away from the sink, leads him toward the futon. The sheets have been changed, and he pushes Yoongi down, pulls his own shirt over his head.

“Jihoon,” Yoongi says, almost a warning, even as he wiggles out of his own shirt and shimmies his boxers down his legs.

“Yeah, hyung,” Jihoon asks, shoving Yoongi further onto the bed, flat on his back. He pushes his thighs open and holds them, looks down at the pale expanse of his body, laid out in all of it's scarred and ruined glory. Yoongi is covered in cuts and scrapes and cigarette burns. He's always bruised, always bleeding somewhere. He's broken most of his fingers and a few of his ribs. He's always dirty and sweaty and ugly but right now he's pale and soft and clean, still smelling like peach as Jihoon bends to kiss his belly. It jumps under his mouth. “What.”

Yoongi swallows. Jihoon looks up to watch him, and watches him get more and more upset the longer he stares, the longer he can't speak. Jihoon finally smooths his hands down the insides of Yoongi's thighs to rub the pale skin near his groin and Yoongi jumps in surprise.

“Make it hurt,” he whispers. “I want it to hurt.”

“No, hyung,” Jihoon replies like he always does, hating how Yoongi's face screws up with self-hatred and misdirected loathing. It's not that Jihoon doesn't think Yoongi's not worth the effort of hurting him. It's just... Hasn't he been hurt enough? Doesn't he hurt himself enough for everyone? Sometimes when Jihoon looks at him he sees what he might have been if he'd been less loved, if he'd been less taken care of and all he wants, he thinks, is to try and get Yoongi back on the path he _should_ be on. The one where he's happy, at least a little.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

In the faint light, Jihoon moves down between Yoongi's pale legs. They're hard with muscle, too thin, and Jihoon bites the insides of his thighs. This is the kind of hurt he gives, but not the kind of hurt Yoongi means. Jihoon leaves lovebites and bruises so when Yoongi wears his briefs he can see the marks in the mirror, possession. He leaves dark hickies on Yoongi's neck and rakes of his nails down Yoongi's back, red marks on his backside and hypersensitivity of his overstimulated cock. Yoongi wants Jihoon to _hurt_ him, slap him, kick him, cut him. The things he thinks he deserves for being such a fuckup.

Jihoon doesn't want to hurt him.

Not like that.

He sucks and bites, gnaws bruises into Yoongi's thighs and watches his cock get hard, watches him strain to open his legs wider, grabbing at the frame of the futon and panting into the milky light. He watches Yoongi's back arch as his nails rake furrows into his belly. He watches Yoongi reach down and spread himself when Jihoon's cock nudges at his rim and he _hears_ Yoongi cry out like a twink in a porn when Jihoon is seated, his legs trembling, one hand over his mouth and the other on Jihoon's shoulder. Jihoon smacks the new marks he's left, he fucks Yoongi deep and hard and slow. He listens to Yoongi pant and hiss and grunt when Jihoon flips him over to fuck him from behind. It's the most open and honest Yoongi ever is, in the morning when he's getting fucked. He's loud and sweet and weak, his heart is exposed and Jihoon always makes sure to have him on his back when he's going to cum because Yoongi likes to hold on to his shoulders and whimper into his ear, because Yoongi hiccups and holds back tears when Jihoon cradles his head and kisses his mouth slow, and deep, and warm.

“Jihoonah,” Yoongi whispers, when Jihoon is inside him, cock still pulsing, cum splattered all over his trembling belly, his heart racing. “Jihoonah, I.”

Jihoon doesn't make him say it. Doesn't wait for him to say it—just kisses his mouth to swallow the words so they can stay safe inside of them. Saying them gives them real weight, real consequences and expectations and Jihoon doesn't want that. Not with this Yoongi, not now. Not with this worn, miserable vision of his future. Not until he can bring Yoongi _out_ of this miserable future. Not until next year, when he's graduated and gotten that job he'd been contracted at Sony Records after his junior project got passed around to a few people his professors know.

Jihoon swallows the words and when Yoongi tries to speak them he puts a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. Hates how Yoongi's eyes close off and well up but it's better this way. Just for another year, just another year. Yoongi is addicted to drugs and alcohol but Jihoon is addicted to Yoongi and he just can't stay away, even though he knows it would be better for both of them if he could because he's hurting him. Because they're hurting each other but Yoongi is so beautiful and so hurt and Jihoon loves him so, so much. Because Jihoon wants the chance to heal him. To love him properly.

Jihoon rocks. He rocks and strokes his hand up and down until Yoongi's cock gives a wretched little twitch and spit of cum, until Yoongi is whimpering in overstimulated pain. He kisses his neck and sucks hickies into the pale, thin skin. _Mine,_ he marks him. _Mine, mine mine._ Just one more year, just one. One more year of misery and if they can make it that long, god, they'll last forever, into an eternity Jihoon is gunning for—and Yoongi just can't see. Not yet.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson woke up because the sun was pointing into his skull like it was trying to bore a hole through it. With a groan he turned over, unsurprised to find Jooheon in bed beside him, still in his clothes. They were both still in his clothes—Jooheon had worn a pair of Jackson's jeans and one of his old t-shirts to hang out at the trainyard the night before and he still smelled like weed and brandy and his warm, spicy cologne.

Jackson woke up because the sun was pointing into his skull like it was trying to bore a hole through it. With a groan he turned over, unsurprised to find Jooheon in bed beside him, still in his clothes. They were both still in his clothes—Jooheon had worn a pair of Jackson's jeans and one of his old t-shirts to hang out at the trainyard the night before and he still smelled like weed and brandy and his warm, spicy cologne.

With a sigh of contentedness, deciding that he could brave the sun if it meant he got to kiss Jooheon awake, Jackson got up to straddle his boyfriend and rest on his hands and knees over him. He kissed his round cheeks, his cute nose, his jaw. His neck and ear and lips. Jooheon made funny little noises, wrinkled his nose and Jackson had to fight the urge to squeal like he always did when Jooheon did cute shit like that.

Jooheon would deny he was cute until the end of time, probably, and Jackson would keep insisting he was. Because he was. Cute. And hot, and funny, and warm and loving and basically perfect except for the way he didn't always put up the bathmat after a shower and how he couldn't get out of bed on time. And maybe how he never put his shoes in the shoe rack, instead leaving them in the doorway. That was _literally_ what the shoe rack was for. Literally. And it was _right there._

Whatever.

Jackson kept pressing kisses all over Jooheon's adorable face until Jooheon whined and tried to roll over but was unable, since Jackson had him pinned on his back. He blinked his eyes open and laughed, shoving weakly at Jackson's arm before wrapping his own arm around it and humming. “What're you doin,” he asked, his voice gravelled with sleep and his eyes and cheeks puffy. God, he was _so_ cute.

“Wakin' you up,” Jackson replied easily, kissing Jooheon's nose and cheeks.

“Gross,” Jooheon complained. “You smell like a fuckin...” He trailed off and Jackson cocked his head, reaching to tickle at Jooheon's _extremely_ sensitive ribs.

“Like what, you punk,” he teased as Jooheon shrieked a little and wiggled.

“Jackson!” he yelped, and Jackson laughed, laying down beside him and hugging him in close, Jooheon's face to his neck. “Jackson, you're such a jerk—don't stick your hand down my fuckin' pants,” Jooheon smacked Jackson's arm. “You ain't even brushed your teeth yet you fuckin' scrub, get off me.”

“Will you let me touch you if I shower,” Jackson asked, grinning down at Jooheon, who squinted up at him. “Do you want to shower _with_ me?”

“What are th'chances a'me makin' it outta the shower without getting off,”

“Slim to none,” Jackson chirped. Jooheon waited only a moment before saying,

“Okay,” and slowly hauling himself up.

“If only you'd get up that early on weekdays, just think, you'd never be late for anything!”

“If only you were here when I got up so I could get a blowjob every morning,” Jooheon replied, his voice thick with sleep as he yawned and climbed out of the full bed the two of them had been sleeping in the last year and a half or so. They'd finally moved in together when they both found out that they were couch-surfing and between the two of them they could afford a studio.

One thing led to another, drunken antics turned into drunken kisses and hangover kisses and finally sober kisses in the light coming through the kitchen windows. They'd only _officially_ started dating about six months ago but to be honest, they'd been basically married before that.

“You're such a demanding whore,” Jackson complained, and Jooheon laughed, peeling off his clothes and throwing them into the basket at the end of the bed. “Do you want me to do laundry today?”

“Nah, I'll do it,” Jooheon replied, nude in the mid-morning sun and Jackson just had to stop and look. He always had to stop and look at Jooheon. Jooheon, who had put on weight since the two of them had moved in together, just like Jackson had. He'd been really self-conscious about it at first, but seeing Jooheon's body fill out—seeing his belly get soft and his thighs get thick, his jaw not quite so cut and his cheeks go back to their cute, chipmunky fullness, that had eased his worry. Jooheon wasn't worried about having fat on his stomach, so Jackson wasn't, either.

“You are so good looking,” Jackson said, and Jooheon paused where he was grabbing a towel, bare-assed to the rest of the apartment.

“What?”

“You're good looking,” he repeated, shameless and grinning as Jooheon blushed like he always did, spluttering out nonsense about how Jackson said that all the time and he was going to stop believing it soon.

He never stopped believing it, not even for a second, Jackson knew.

As Jooheon walked past the bed, where Jackson was still sitting in his clothes, he reached out and grabbed his thigh, pulled him in and kissed his hip, looking up at him through his dark bangs. Jooheon sighed, ran his fingers through Jackson's hair, his blunt fingernails over his scalp and Jackson gave a happy sigh, kissing the soft skin, feeling the give like he wouldn't have a few months before.

“Stop kissing my fat, you weirdo,” Jooheon muttered, though he didn't move away.

“I like your fat,” Jackson sniffed, biting gently. “Makes you all nice n'soft n'shit. Don't feel like I'm gonna cut myself on that jawline.” Jooheon rolled his eyes but his hands moved down to cup Jackson's head, and he bent to kiss him, unbrushed teeth and all. Totally gross, but Jackson didn't care. Didn't care at all.

“Love you too, babe,” Jooheon murmured as he stood up, smiling that little smile that made his eyes curve. “C'mon, come get in the shower with me. I'll blow you.”

“After I've done you?” Jackson asked, getting up and smiling, wiggling out of his clothes as Jooheon headed toward the kitchen and sprinting past him to lay a heavy _smack_ on his ass before darting into bathroom, cackling madly in response to Jooheon's startled squawk.

“What the _fuck,_ Jackson,” Jooheon laughed, looking at the other man as he sat on the edge of the tub and grinned, the water already running. “You're such a jackass. Maybe that should be your name instead.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Jakson said, indignant and laughing as Jooheon bent to rest his forearms on his shoulders, his lips on the top of his head. “Jerk.”

“You love me,” Jooheon said.

“I do,” he admitted, turning and tilting his head to kiss Jooheon's chin. “I really, really do.” Jackson smiled up at his lover as Jooheon handed him his toothbrush, a squeeze of toothpaste already on it. For a moment they just stood there in silence, brushing their teeth and waiting for the water to get hot. Jooheon was so warm behind him, sitting on the closed toilet with his lips on Jackson's neck, breath smelling like mint as he put his toothbrush back in the cup. “Stop that,” he complained, as Jooheon's tongue touched his ear, putting his own toothbrush away. “We're supposed to be getting _clean._ ”

“You literally said you were going to blow me in the shower.”

“ _In_ the shower,” Jackson complained, wiggling his shoulders. “Not _before_ the shower. Besides you said you'd do me too. Jerk.”

“I'll do better than blow you, if you want,” his lips kissed down Jackson's neck and Jackson shivered, his belly tightening. “I mean, there's all kinds of stuff I can do for you, if you want. I could finger you, I could rim you—you like that, huh, I could bend you _right_ over the edge of this tub and fuck your ass with my mouth until you're crying, Jackson Wang.”

“Nope,” Jackson replied, breathless and full of bravado. “I'm not cleaned up, so you don't get to put your mouth anywhere near my ass, babe.”

“You're such a prude,” Jooheon complained without much rancor.

“I'm looking out for your health and happiness. C'mon, water's hot.”

Jackson guided Jooheon into the shower and closed the curtain. They'd invested in a not-shitty shower head when they moved in, so it had a long nozzle. They could only stand under it one at a time, but given that they spent most of the showers they took together pressed close anyway, well. No big deal. Jackson had no concept of personal space and hadn't since he was a kid—Jooheon didn't seem to mind. If anything he seemed to appreciate the regular crowding, the demanding for cuddles and the way Jackson would occasionally just lay on top of him when he was reading or playing a video game that didn't require too much intense focus, just to be close.

In the shower, they washed one another down. Soap suds and quite giggling, comfortable in one another's company and bodies. They weren't always, especially not Jooheon—insecure in his untoned stomach, the little softness in his hips, but Jackson thought he was beautiful. Jackson, who was made of hard lines for most of his childhood, found comfortable give in Jooheon, who embraced all his sharp edges like water and smoothed them to curves.

They were good to one another.

“Jackson?” Jooheon sighed as they stood under the water. “You don't need to blow me.”

“You sure?” Jackson asked, almost pouting as he stood pressed up to Jooheon's back, arms around his waist. He could feel Jooheon's heartbeat in his lips as he kissed his neck. “S'not a problem, babe.”

“Kinda just wanna get back in bed,” he admitted, and Jackson looked at him for a moment, took in the puffiness of his eyes and the sleepiness in his posture and hummed out an _okay,_ nodding and reaching to turn off the water.

“Lets go back to bed then.” Jackson ignored his erection—ignored Jooheon's erection—and instead focused on getting them both dried off and back into the bedsheets. Once there, tucked safe under the soft fabric, Jackson kissed Jooheon's lips and smiled as Jooheon kissed him, again, one more time. He was hard, his cheeks blushed, his eyes half-open.

“You're so tired,” Jackson hummed, kissing Jooheon's hairline. “Go to sleep, huh? We can fuck when you get up, if you want. But if you try to stick your dick in me right now you're gonna fall asleep and that will kill my ego. I am so boring you fell asleep fucking me, that's what I'll think, Jooheon.”

“Sorry,” Jooheon yawned, and Jackson kissed his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose.

“Don't be sorry. Get some _rest._ ”

Jooheon was asleep again in minutes. Jackson knew he would be. Jooheon slept badly on a good day, and never mind that they'd both come home after a night of getting high to collapse in their bed with their clothes still on. It was a miracle Jooheon had slept at all.

But now, now with the blankets pulled up to his cheeks and his body buried under the warm covers with the sunlight streaming in Jackson watched him sleep, and snuggled down beside him. He held one of Jooheon's hands, kissed it, kept it close to his face as he closed his eyes with every intention of sleeping, too.

Maybe Jooheon would kiss him awake. Jackson liked that. Jooheon's soft lips, his soft cheeks, his soft everything, pressed to him as he kissed his lips until Jackson kissed him back.

Jackson fell asleep.

And three hours later he woke to the press of lips to his cheek, to his eyebrow, to his nose, and smiled.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...i can't promise that there won't be other chapters of this but i also can't promise that i'll actually write them so here you go i hope you liked it  <3


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